My Epic, Your Trash Can

I. Lunchtaker:

Wrinkles have formed under the eyes

But hair nets erase them from sight

Staring at the same faces

Shloping the generic meal

Russian shots fill the void as a fog encircles

II. Leaktaker:

Tap dancing on a sink as neon light fills the room

Mind plays 52 pickup with a new deck

Neck buckles under the third chin

The clown shoes have come off

As the open hands now grip the only hope

III. Bustaker:

People skip to and fro everywhere

Unaware of the time bomb in their pants

Reflection on the window showcasing

The fear of a public transportation restroom

But here is the last stop, procession down the steps

IV. Gastaker:

Here it is, the dream climaxed for

Ultimate 10th grade petty aspirations realized

But now it is left in a ditch of street mime faces

Uncontrollable even when using a shock collar

How many years ago, the bottomless ceased to be fed

V. Sooooooooooooooooooultaker:

A pure flashback, comes in a fog between hogs

Lifting a face now covered in hot sauce

Before sinking any lower in sawdust, one final solution

A black, hard ring from a time when liquid candy came by the suitcase

Hold it over, changing it to a bright, sticky, glowing green

Zepplin was wrong, but was Sabbath wrong too?